Halting on the graveled drive before the stable arch, he listened to the moody air. It drew him-he could feel the tug as if it was physical. The music spoke-of need, of restless frustration, of underlying rebellion.

The scrunch of gravel under his boots, brought him to his senses. Frowning, he stopped again. The music room was on the ground floor, facing away from the ruins; its windows gave onto the terrace. At least one window had to be open, or he wouldn't hear the music so clearly.

For a long moment, he stared, unseeing, at the house. The music grew more eloquent, seeking to ensorcel him, insistently drawing him on. For one more minute, he resisted, then shook aside his hesitation. His face set, he strode for the terrace.

When the final notes died, Patience sighed and lifted her fingers from the keys. A measure of calm had returned to her, the music had released some of her restlessness, had soothed her soul. A catharsis.

She stood, more serene, more confident than when she'd sat. Pushing back the stool, she stepped about it and turned.

Toward the windows. Toward the man who stood beside the open French door. His expression was set, unreadable.

"I had thought," she said, her words deliberate, her eyes steady on his, "that you might be thinking of leaving."

Her challenge could not have been clearer.

"No." Vane answered without thinking; no thought was required. "Aside from unmasking the Spectre and discovering the thief, I haven't yet got that something I want."

Contained, commanding, Patience's chin rose another notch. Vane studied her, his words echoing in his head. When he'd first coined the phrase, he hadn't appreciated exactly what it was that he wanted. Now he knew. His goal, this time, was different from the prizes he habitually lusted after. This time, he wanted a great deal more.

He wanted her-all of her. Not just the physical her, but her devotion, her love, her heart-all the essential her, the tangible intangible of her being, her self. He wanted it all-and he wasn't going to be satisfied with anything less.

He knew why he wanted her, too. Why she was different. But he wasn't going to think about that.

She was his. He'd known it the instant he'd held her in his arms, that first evening with the storm lowering about them. She'd fitted-and he'd known, instinctively, immediately, at some level deeper than his bones. He hadn't come by his name by accident: he had a gift for recognizing what scent was on the breeze. An instinctive hunter, he responded to shifts in the mood, the atmosphere, taking advantage of whatever current was flowing without conscious thought.

He'd known from the first just what was in the wind-known from the instant he'd held Patience Debbington in his arms.

Now she stood before him, challenge lighting gold sparks in her eyes. That she was tired of their present hiatus was clear; what she envisioned replacing it was not so obvious. The only virtuous, willful women he'd interacted with were related to him; he'd never dallied with such ladies. He had no clue what Patience was thinking, how much she'd accepted. Taking a death grip on the reins of his own clamorous needs, he deliberately took the first steps to find out.

With slow, prowling strides, he approached her.

She didn't say a word. Instead, her eyes steady on his, she lifted one hand, one finger, and, slowly, giving him ample time to react, to stop her if he would, reached to touch his lips.

Vane didn't move.

The first tentative touch inwardly rocked him; he tightened his hold on his passions. She sensed the momentary turbulence. Her eyes widened, her breath caught. Then he stilled and she relaxed, and continued her tracing.

She seemed fascinated by his lips. Her gaze dropped to them; as her finger passed over his lower lip and returned to one comer, Vane moved his head just enough to brush a kiss across her fingertip.

Her eyes lifted again to his. Emboldened, she quested further, lifting her fingers higher to trace his cheek.

Vane returned the caress, slowly raising one hand to run the back of his fingers along the smooth curve of her jaw, then sliding them back until his palm cupped her chin. His fingers firmed; moving to the slow, steady drumbeat only he and she could hear, he tilted her face up.

Their gazes locked. Then he let his lids fall, knowing she did the same. In time with the slow beat, he lowered his lips to hers. >

She hesitated for one instant, then kissed him back. He waited one beat more before demanding her mouth; she yielded it instantly. Sliding his fingers further, beneath the silken coil of hair at her nape, he raised his other hand and framed her jaw.

He held her face steady-and slowly, systematically, moving to the compelling rhythm that held them, drove them, plundered her mouth.

That kiss was a revelation-Patience had never imagined a simple kiss could be so bold, so heavily invested with meaning. His lips were hard; they moved over hers, parting them further, confidently managing her, ruthlessly teaching her all she was so eager to learn.

His tongue invaded her mouth with the arrogance of a conqueror claiming victory's spoils. Unhurriedly, he visited every corner of his domain, claiming each inch, branding it as his-knowing it. After a lengthy, devastatingly thorough inspection, he settled to sample her in a different way. The slow, languid thrusting seduced her willing senses.

She'd yielded, yet her passive surrender satisfied neither of them. Patience found herself drawn into the game-the slide of lips against lips, the sensual glide of hot tongue against tongue. She was more than willing. The promise in the heat rising, steadily building between them, and even more the tension-excitement and something more-that surged like a slow tide behind the warm glow, drew her on. The kiss stretched and time slowed-the drugging effect of shared breaths sent her wits into a slow spin.

He drew back, breaking the kiss, letting her catch her breath. But he didn't straighten; his lips, relentlessly hard, remained mere inches from hers.

Aware only of compulsion, of the steady driving beat in her blood, she stretched upward and touched her lips to his.

He took her lips, her mouth, briefly, then again broke the contact.

Patience snatched a breath and, stretching up, followed his lips with hers. She needn't have worried-he wasn't going anywhere. His fingers firmed about her jaw; his lips returned, harder, more demanding as he angled his head over hers.

The kiss deepened. Patience hadn't dreamed there could be more, yet there was. Heat and hunger poured through her. She felt each caress, each bold, knowing stroke-she reveled in the hot pleasure, drank it in, and gave it back-and wanted more.

When next their lips parted, they were both breathing rapidly. Patience opened her eyes and met his watchful gaze. Subtle invitation, and even subtler challenge, melded in the grey; she considered the sight-and considered how much more he could teach her.

She paused. Then she stepped closer, sliding one hand, then the other, up over his broad shoulders. Her bodice touched his jacket; she moved closer still. Boldly holding his gaze, she pressed her hips to his thighs.

The locking of his control was palpable, like the sudden clenching of a fist. The reaction reassured her, allowed her to continue to meet his grey gaze. To meet the challenge in his eyes.

His hands had softened about her face; now they drifted away, resting briefly on her shoulders before, his gaze steady on hers, he swept them down, down her back, over her hips, drawing her fully against him.

Patience's breath caught. Her lids fell. Wordlessly, she lifted her face, offering her lips.

He took them, took her-as their lips fused, Patience felt his hands slide lower, deliberately tracing the ripe hemispheres of her bottom. He filled his hands, then kneaded-heat spread, prickling over her skin, leaving it fevered. Cupping her firm flesh, he molded her to him, easing her deeper into the V of his braced thighs.